It had been days now in Vikram’s place. My day used to start in the early morning on the floor of Vikram’s room.
I had to lie naked and perfectly still at the foot of his bed, acting as a footstool while he drank his first cup of coffee. If I moved even a centimetre, I would lose my breakfast.
The morning was for work. He lets me wear the grey T-shirt. He sat me in the study and made me dig through the Minister’s dirty laundry.
It was a crazy feeling, using my ‘Verdict Machine’ brain to save my life while my body was treated like a piece of plastic.
Sometimes, when I was too slow or if I looked him in the eye for too long, he used to give me a ‘task.’ Once, he made me sit on a bowl of ice while I typed a report.
Another time, he tied my hands to the chair and fed me like a bird for six hours. Naked. He was not just punishing me. He was reshaping me till I changed into nothing but a toy for him.
And for that, obedience could never be enough for a man like Vikram. He tried to handle me in the way any cruel child may handle his ugliest doll. He didn’t have any use for a woman with a soul.
What he wanted was a woman who could think but could not say “no” to him. Laxmi was part of the clockwork, too. I saw her yesterday in the kitchen. She was down on the kitchen floor. Her bare knees were placed on dry lentils.
I watched her for an hour. She remained motionless. Her only sign of life was the slow rise and fall of her breath. I asked her why she was even doing this.
She spoke up, “Sir is saying I create noise in the home. Plates make so much noise while setting the table. So, this is my lesson to stay quiet.” It was a madhouse, but the madness had a thrill.
Like, someday, after two weeks maybe. In the late morning, Laxmi sent me to the far end of the garden to pick some herbs. Vikram was out for a meeting. I saw her. The neighbour lady. She looked stunning in a deep red saree, but her eyes were fixed on my bare legs.
I was only in the grey T-shirt, nothing below. She was standing right at the edge of her property. She got a glimpse of my groin when I was bending to pluck an herb. “He shaved you well,” she said.
Listening to this, I was like, No hello. I saw her when I heard her voice. She looked a few years older than me. The elegance she has usually comes in your early forties.
“So, you’re the latest one he’s brought home,” she called me. I was standing up to face her across the fence.
“My name is Meera,” I replied.
She returned a humourless bark in response. Then she spoke, “Names don’t last long in that house. I’ve watched three ‘new ones’ come and go over this year.”
“You… you watch him?” I asked her, looking back at the bungalow.
“I observe,” she corrected me. Then she stepped closer. “I watch because I know the taste of that leash. I was like you once. Here you become prisoner of your own mind,” she said.
“It’s been over a decade since I’ve been here. Trying to be a good housewife, maintaining my little house. But the truth was in the bedroom. Every single night, I’d bind my own wrists with silk scarves. I had to create my own cage to feel the rush of being powerless for a few hours.”
She paused; her eyes were scanning my face. “Do you hate it yet? Or are you starting to realise that being a toy is the thing you always wanted?”
I replied. “He is a monster.”
She gave a smile. And for a second, I saw a ribbon on her neck. It was tied tightly around her neck but hidden by her collar. “He is a master of truth, Meera.”
“So, you want to be in here?” I whispered. I was a bit shocked.
“Yes,” she said roughly. “But imagination is a hungry dog; it’s never enough. You have the real thing. You have a man who actually erases you. Do you know how lucky that makes you?”
“I am a prisoner,” I hissed, denying her question.
“No,” she replied in her cold voice. “You are a toy. A toy doesn’t have to worry about the Minister, or the money, or the lies. A toy has to be entertaining for the owner.”
She turned around. Walked away before I could ask her anything else. The things she said hit me. I was left standing there. I was trying to understand the meaning of what she said.
She was not feeling sorry for me. What actually surprised me? That woman was actually jealous of me. I felt.
That evening, Vikram came home in a dark mood. He didn’t speak. He just pointed to the floor. I knelt. I was starting to do it faster now, without being told.
My knees found the familiar spot on the rug. Vikram sat on the sofa. He put his boots on my shoulders. This was getting really uncomfortable over time. But he was Vikram. He used me like a footrest for an hour till his call ended.
I was feeling restless. So, a soft moan came out of my mouth when his heel pressed into a spot that hurt.
Vikram stopped talking in the middle of his sentence on the call. His eyes got smaller. He looked at me.
While he continued talking there, he bent down. Took off one of his socks. Then he put the sock in my mouth. The sock smelled eww! bitter.
That taste made me throw up that dirty sock. It was making my cries sound more like whimpers. He put more pressure on my shoulder with his boot and told me to be quiet. “Silence”
When he finished the call, he looked down at me. “Laxmi says you were talking to the neighbour.”
I tried to speak from that sock, but was not able to. Only muffled noises were coming out. So, he pulled the sock out of my mouth. I took a long breath, “She… she just said hello.”
Vikram grabbed my hair. He pulled my head back until I was up. “She is a voyeur, Meera. She likes to watch what I do because her own life is a desert. Do you want to give her a show?”
He had not waited for me to answer. He stood up and started dragging me by my hair, towards the large glass doors.
He didn’t open them. He forced me to that glass. My naked body from the front was pressed against the glass window.
“Look! out there,” he said by coming near my ear. “She’s watching. Show her how a senior officer learns to obey.”
He got a silk rope from the drawer. Then he tied my wrists with it. After that, he put the rope over the door handle. This meant I had to stand on my tiptoes. My boobs were pressed flat against the window because of this. The silk rope was still tied around my wrists.
He didn’t enter me. He never did. Instead, he took a silver egg from his pocket. It was vibrating on switching. I had seen these things in shops before. I never thought I would actually feel one. He slid the egg right on my clit. The vibrations were silent. My breath was making the glass all foggy.
He stood behind me. He was rubbing his hands on my back, my buttocks. I was moaning every time from those vibrations. And when I moaned, he was pinching my ear and spanked my butt. Or pull the rope tighter. “Quiet. You are a tool. Tools don’t make noise unless they are broken.”
I looked at the garden through the glass. There was something. I could see the neighbour lady on her balcony. It was hard to tell what she was doing because she was just a shadow.
But I could see a lady standing there. I knew she was looking at me and might be smoking too. I had seen the soft glow of a cigarette there.
The vibration was getting too much. It was making me so upset. I felt like I should shout at him to hurry up and get it over with. But he just stood there staring at me. He put his hand on his dick from outside his pants.
“You are dripping um. The glass is getting wet.” He laughed, seeing me like that. His smile was low. “So, this is the Verdict Machine now. leaking faucet.”
He kept me in that position for a long time. The pleasure was painful, actually. Because he would not let me have an orgasm, he used to make the vibration really strong until I was shaking over. And then he would turn it off. Left me sitting there in silence.
He did this to the vibration again and again. It was driving me crazy. The orgasm was what I wanted. But he would not give it to me, and that was the hardest part.
He did not untie the rope. He just moved closer to me. He was holding one feather. He rubbed this feather on and inside of my thighs, on my pussy, and across the bottoms of my feet.
My body jumped high. My muscles were twitching all over, but I could not move my hands because of the rope. I bit down on my lip so I would not laugh or scream too loudly.
“Now,” he spoke. “Watch her watch you.”
He stepped away. Came back with a small bowl. There was melted wax in the bowl. I was expecting him to pour it on my back. But he was Vikram, unpredictable.
He held the bowl over my ass. Then he let one drop of the wax fall slowly right onto my pussy lips. The wax felt warm, and I felt a quick shock when I felt that heat.
The heat hit me like a shock. I tried to scream, but it came out as a broken sound instead. The wax hardened almost instantly, within moments.
Before I could process what was happening, He blew on the wax to make it cooler. And then he peeled it off slowly with his teeth.
The sensation of peeling was rough, intimate. And utterly humiliating. He did it again. And again. Heat, then the slow pull of the wax. Each drop made me jerk. Each peel made me shiver.
“Count the drops in your head, Meera. If you lose count, I will start the whole bowl.”
I looked through the glass and saw the neighbour lady. She was not smoking now. She stood near the railing and did not move at all. Her body was still. I knew what she was doing. She was watching the Verdict Machine as it melted.
The vibrations started again, the feather teased my inner thighs, and the wax fell; heat, pull, heat, pull. My mind was a blur of numbers. Seven. Eight. Nine. My body was on fire, but the rope held me up. I was a naked exhibit, a toy for two sets of eyes.
Finally, he stopped. He untied the rope. I collapsed on the floor. My clit throbbed, my skin was marked with wax burns, and my mind was a mess of conflict.
But he wasn’t done. “Stand,” he commanded.
I struggled to get on my feet. He walked behind me and shoved me forward, bending me over the low desk against the wall. My ass was facing him, red and tender from the belt and the wax.
He moved to my side. His hand came down hard on my right boob. Slap. “These are useless,” he said. “Saggy. Like empty pouches.”
Slap. His palm hit my left boob, and it was even harder this time. I gasped, and instantly, tears came to my eyes. He continued, his fingers pinching my nipple, and he twisted until I cried out.
Slap. Slap. Slap. A few more strikes, each one was landing right on the sensitive tissue. My boobs were red and swollen till now, the nipples became hard and were aching. He squeezed them both, using them as handles to push my torso lower.
“Stay,” he said. I heard him open a drawer. He searched inside for a moment. Then he came back with a brush and a small pot of red paint.
“This will be your name today,” he said. He dipped the brush. He began to paint. The bristles were stiff.
He wrote slowly, deliberately, COCK on one butt and WHORE on the other. Each letter was a stroke of humiliation. The word blazed red against my sore flesh, naming me a CockWhore.
“Perfect,” he said. He set the brush down, then grabbed my ass. Before I could guess, he pressed the handle of the paintbrush against my asshole. The tip was still slick with paint.
The diameter was thin, but the invasion was unexpected. The paint was stinging my skin. My muscles were clenching around this foreign object.
“Don’t move,” he warned. He pulled out his phone. I heard the digital click of a camera. “Face down, just the word and the brush.”
He waited a beat, probably sending the photo. Then he yanked the brush out. He tossed the brush aside. “Go to the kitchen. Laxmi has your dinner. You will eat it off the floor today, like a good girl. No hands.”
I crawled toward the kitchen, the word “CockWhore” was burning on my ass. I should have been planning my escape. I should have been thinking of the Minister.
But all I could think about was the way his eyes looked in the glass, and how much I wanted him to turn that silver egg back on.
I was becoming his toy. And the most terrifying thing was, I had started to hate the moments when he wasn’t playing with me.
To be continued.
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